


Face Down, Head In The Hole, In Just Your Underwear Please

by alexabarton



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Clubbing, Hands, M/M, Massage, Massage Therapist Sherlock, Rugby Captain John, Unilock, University Student Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-06 04:30:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12203916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexabarton/pseuds/alexabarton
Summary: When a rugby tackle puts John Watson out of action a massage from a stranger turns his world upside down. But with his face down, and head in the hole will John ever find him again?





	Face Down, Head In The Hole, In Just Your Underwear Please

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, a little background here. This is my day job, this is what I do for a living and most of the things done/said in the spa are, with a little artistic licence here and there, entirely real. Sorry in advance to my co-workers who (I hope) will never, ever see this.

 

 

John Watson sweated like a beast, through equal parts exertion and pain, trapped beneath a less than fragrant duvet. No one could say it wasn’t a valiant performance on his behalf, or that John was not an extremely considerate lover. At least he hoped that was the case. Except he couldn’t quite remember the name of the lady in question. And that was pretty bad form. A basic requirement. Was it Andrea? Angela? Sandra, maybe?

The night thus far had been a blur of cheap alcohol procured from the back of an ancient white transit van from a cousin of the fly-half James (who'd 'acquired' it from a bloke just out of Strangeways this past Wednesday.) No one actually cared about it's rather dubious origins though. When trying to eke out a student loan until Christmas break you took whatever you could get your hands on, legality be damned. The point was inebriation of the highest order, in the shortest time frame possible and the means was, well, pretty meaningless. And no one partied harder than John Watson, who had garnered something of a reputation of late. In only his second year of a medical degree he had achieved an academic ranking in the top two per cent in the country and was also the youngest rugby captain ever at Queen Mary University of London. High honours indeed. But the accolades did not end there. Not a weekend had gone by so far this term without a different body in his bed by the end of a Saturday night. And sharing a bed with John Watson ensured a bloody good time was had by all. Well it usually did. And that had in fact, been the plan this time, but somewhere along the line, as had happened more and more frequently of late, John was rapidly losing his focus, and his libido along with it. Something just wasn't cutting the mustard lately and he couldn't quite put his finger on what. Well, except he'd put his fingers, plural, on and in quite a lot of things tonight, in an impressive variety of ways, but it really wasn't happening. For either of them.

Nevertheless, John swirled and flicked and jiggled his tongue for England while long nails scraped across his scalp just hard enough to make him wince and more than enough to irritate. He’d heard it suggested by God knows who that the quickest way to make your partner come was to pretend you were tracing out the alphabet with your tongue, and that you were most definitely inadequate in the love department if you made it as far as S. And it worked like a charm, every time for him, and at least this way he didn’t have to deal with all the kissing and snuggling and gazing into her eyes afterward. That stuff always made him feel like a prat. And what was he trying to prove? To himself? To his mates? That he could pull, whoever, whenever?

This time, John had made it as far as S. He’d gone through the whole damn twenty-seven letters at least four times now and was rapidly losing the will to live as well all upper body sensation. He traced out one final, desperate, ‘kill-me-please’ just at the moment his shoulder decided to give up the ghost for good and his arm went out from under him. He planted face down in Angela-Andrea-Sandra’s impressively hairy muff.

A cold blast of air accompanied a sudden, and distinct absence of duvet.

“Thit, m’thorry”, John lisped, as he levered himself up again on his remaining good arm and discreetly attempted to extract several pubic hairs from the back of his tongue, (as well as his face from a near-strangers nether regions.) He stifled the resultant cough as one caught in the back of his throat anyway, and swallowed thickly. His own interest had blessedly wilted in the both the figurative and literal sense thank god.

“You know, I know a place where you could get that sorted,” said Angela-Andrea-Sandra, quite unperturbed by this rather unexpected turn of events.

"Erm -- what?" John coughed.

She pointed at the offending shoulder.

"Oh," John said, relieved, rubbing circles over it. "Nah, it's just a bit sore. Rough tackle last match, it’ll be fine in a day or two. Honest.” To prove it, he tried to ease himself up to sitting. His weakened arm shook with the effort, and it promptly gave out again, unable to bear his weight.

Angela-Andrea-Sandra gave a sigh, and swept back her mane of red hair. “Look, here, ring this number,” she said, scrawling on the back of an old cinema ticket with a dusty blue biro she had miraculously liberated from the floor beside John's bed. “They do a fantastic back, neck and shoulder. Almost as good as a sports massage. Just ask for a hard one," she added, without the slightest trace of irony. "Fifty per-cent off for students.”

 

And that was how the following Tuesday afternoon found John shuffling from foot to foot, paralyzed with embarrassed anxiety in the pristine reception area of Beauty With-Inn, a spa inside a Holiday Inn half a mile off campus.

“Can I help you?” said an entirely too chirpy voice, John thought. He was feeling rather sorry for himself, not having slept well the past few nights since muff-gate. The voice in question belonged to a brittle looking woman of indeterminate age named Jan, (wonky name badge) with over-bleached hair and a wide, bright grin that didn’t quite reach her over-made-up eyes.

“Erm, Watson. John Watson. I booked a back massage at two. For my shoulder.”

“Lovely,” the woman said, her smile all teeth and pink gums as she tapped away at a computer screen. What passed for relaxing music in such establishments drifted in through a propped open door to the right where you could see into the room beyond. John caught a brief glimpse of twinkling lights and two massage beds side by side with towels arranged like origami. Enough of a glimpse to be sure he didn't belong in a place like this. Maybe he should leave. Now.

“If you just take a seat on the sofa round the corner I’ll need you to fill out a consultation form and then one of the girls will take you through to the treatment room is that okay?” she said in one long continuous breath.

“Um, yeah?” John said, sheepishly, taking the proffered clipboard and pen from her hand and shuffling off through yet another doorway. The sofa in question, (loose cushions sliding around on a fake willow frame) faced out onto a leisure pool, separated by a corridor of glass where several pensioners floated, motionless in a hexagon shape, like a scene from Cocoon. A sign taped to the wall read ‘Aqua-Fit Class. Pool closed.’ 

John filled out the form in his best illegible future doctor scrawl, his head down as two blokes in muscle-tee's with bulging biceps covered in tattoo's headed past him through another door marked 'Gym'. 

“All done?” asked a second, almost identical lady, as John jerked his head up in surprise. He handed the form back dutifully. To late to back out now. “I’ll take you through," she said.

‘Through’ turned out, as he feared, to be the room of twinkling lights.

“Oo--kay then,” said not-quite-Jan, in an irritatingly cheery voice, standing by one of the beds. “You need to lie face down, your head in the hole in just your underwear please.” She lifted the corner of an origami towel triangle in what she imagined was a helpful way. “And this will unfold to cover you. There’s a hook on the back of the door to hang clothes on if you want, I’ll give you a minute to get settled, yeah?”

And that was it, apparently. She knocked a rubber wedge out from under the door and stepped from the room, pulling it shut with a soft click. He was alone, in a monochrome nightmare with scented candles and fairy lights about to be fondled by an oiled-up stranger for the next half hour. John fingered the edge of the towel, doubting very much in it's ability to either unfold, or to cover him. It resembled a Chinese paper fortune-teller.

He stood, motionless in the semi-darkness, unsure whether to bite the bullet and strip down to his pants or make a run for it.

Jan's voice cut through the thin plaster walls. "Sherl! Client! Just give him a mo love, I've just put him in. Poor things got stage fright I think, so be gentle would ya?."

That stirred John into action. He whipped off his sweat pants and pulled down the zip of his hoodie, which he shucked off a little more carefully, not wanting to aggravate his shoulder further, dumping them on the spare bed. He was naked underneath, (couldn't get a tee-shirt over his head) and despite the warmth of the room his skin erupted in a million tiny goosebumps.

There was another moment of blind panic concerning his underwear. Should he leave them on, take them off? Was a bare arse a no-no? What did she say?

Leave them on, he decided, now regarding the towel arrangement with some degree of suspicion.  After a brief moment of indecision he climbed atop the lot and buried his face in the mound of towels at the head of the bed praying he wouldn't suffocate as the door eased open again. A chink of light illuminated the floor of the room, barely enough to see some random spots of oil and dust bunnies. On a shelf which ran the length of the bed below him, more white towels were stacked neatly with a roll of white couch paper wedged in between them.

There was a slight tsk of annoyance above him as a deep velvet voice muttered _for god's sake._

John froze. Surely not.

"Could you lift your legs up,  _please?"_

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
